


A Glass of Wine and Thee

by Wojelah



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-05-14
Updated: 2010-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-09 13:40:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/88078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wojelah/pseuds/Wojelah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the prompt:  "At a college goth party/club, Prentiss has sex with a guy she later recognizes as David Rossi.  Either Rossi figures it out later, or she tells him before they sleep together again.  Bonus points for Rossi in a priest collar (first encounter) or Prentiss digging out one of her old corsets because it makes her come hard."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Smittywing (Smitty)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smitty/gifts).



> The title has its roots in the [Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rubaiyat_of_Omar_Khayyam). For [](http://smittywing.livejournal.com/profile)[**smittywing**](http://smittywing.livejournal.com/), just because, with huge kudos to [](http://mingsmommy.livejournal.com/profile)[**mingsmommy**](http://mingsmommy.livejournal.com/) and [](http://smacky30.livejournal.com/profile)[**smacky30**](http://smacky30.livejournal.com/), for cheering, beating, and betaing. The fact that there are no mysterious extra limbs is due to their influence. The fact that I ignored their comments about the past perfect is no one's fault but my own. This started out as kink!meme comment!fic but got long. Stop laughing. SPOILERS: Through 4.24, Amplification.

\---

_You have to know the past to understand the present._

\-- Dr. Carl Sagan

\---

It's a good night.

It isn't always. Sometimes she can't get out of her own head enough - can't shed that little voice that sounds a lot like her mother, can't unwind enough to let the combination of clothing and music and alcohol loosen her up. Sometimes she can't get enough perspective, which is the whole point anyway.

It hadn't been a good night last week. She'd been fresh from an argument with her mother about her impending move to Georgetown, Karen had thrown out the pizza she'd been planning for dinner, and Nathan was being the biggest goddamn drama queen in six counties about the state of his eyeliner. They'd gotten to the club later than usual, so the crowds were thicker and all her favorite spots were claimed by people she didn't know. Nathan had promptly abandoned her for his harem, which would've been fine except the DJ was playing some crap that she didn't want to dance to.

Last week, she'd finally just headed back to the bar - Andy had taken one look at her and given Emily her money's worth on her liquor - and then some asshole had jerked his arm and spilled her drink down her front. He'd offered to clean her up, leering the whole while. Emily wasn't about to let some jackass ruin her favorite corset and use it as an excuse to feel her up. She'd told him so in no uncertain terms - not hard, since she had two inches on him in those boots. Andy had handed her a refill, she'd settled herself on the barstool, adjusting her skirts, and she'd seen him.

She still didn't know why he'd caught her eye, since she shouldn't really have seen him at all: the strobes were red tonight, the cigarette smoke was thick, and he'd been in all black. It might have been the priest's collar, a flash of white against dark hair, dark clothing, and dark walls. It might have been the fact that his body language made him stick out like a sore thumb - he looked like someone hunting for something. No one else in here was that curious, that alert. No one else in here cared that much. That was the _point_.

It might have been the fact that he was looking back at her.

Emily had straightened, feeling the gentle pressure of the corset around her ribs as she shifted. The bass had thumped in her ears. He'd been looking back at her, and he'd looked, well, hungry. She'd felt herself flush and given thanks for good makeup and bad lighting - she was pale, but her makeup was paler, and it wouldn't show. She'd lifted her chin, daring him to keep staring. He was easy on the eyes, though. Lean, muscled, intense - something utterly unlike anyone else in the room. He'd smiled at her scrutiny and then he'd given her a slow once-over that had made her fully aware of how much of her décolleté was exposed. Heat had flashed along her spine, but Emily had refused to back down. She'd stared back and raised an eyebrow in a manner deliberately copied from her mother. Men had been known to crumble before the force of that eyebrow. The priest across the way had just lifted his glass, toasted her, and taken a long sip.

You _bastard_, Emily had thought, but she could feel the thud of her pulse in her ears. The guy had grinned again, wolfish, and she couldn't help it - she'd given him a slow, small smile of her own. He'd taken a last look. Her skin had tingled like he'd actually touched her. Then he'd pushed off the wall, said something to someone she couldn't see, and walked away.

She'd sat very still for a moment, acutely aware that her nipples were hard against the satin lining of the corset, feeling the bindings catch as she'd struggled to keep her breathing even. Someone brushed her shoulder, no more than a passing touch, but she'd felt overwhelmed, stifled. She'd gotten out as soon as she could, the summer air thick against her skin, acutely aware of the dampness between her legs.

By the time Emily had gotten home, she'd been too impatient to do more than tug her skirts free and loosen the corset lacing. She'd shoved the covers off the bed, clumsy in her boots. Her vibrator had gone in easy, though the angle was a bit awkward - the corset stole her flexibility, made her fight for it, fight her way up and up until she'd been desperate, biting her lips to keep herself from cursing too loudly. She'd come hard, fumbling for the off switch as her body shifted abruptly from _not-enough_ to _too-damn-much_. It hadn't been satisfying, but it had settled her down enough that she could think straight.

She'd wondered, tugging off her boots and yanking on her stays, if she'd see him again. She'd wondered, and then she'd been annoyed with herself for wondering, and then she'd fallen asleep - only to be woken up when Nathan had mistaken her room for his own, towing behind him a girl with a laugh shrill enough to crack glass.

It hadn't been a good night.

Tonight, by contrast, is much, much better. She'd found a gorgeous bustled skirt in a tiny shop tucked away on a side street and had splurged shamelessly on the corset that went with it, black tapestry and jet beads and a neckline that plunged. Laced properly, it cuts just above her hips, dropping lower over her abdomen. Nathan will throw a fit - it isn't historically accurate in the slightest - and Emily can't care less. She's gone all out: thigh-high fishnets that peep through a high gather in the skirt; platform granny boots that give her another three inches, easy; a slim velvet choker with a drop that hits her collarbone just so. She's gone pale with her makeup - pale even for her - painting her eyes huge and smoky and her lips a deep red that's just shy of black. And she's left her hair down - the corset leaves her shoulders bare and she likes the way her hair feels against her skin.

She feels like she's left herself behind, like she's someone else, someone exotic and older and strange.

She feels _gorgeous_.

Tonight, she thinks, watching Nathan's jaw drop and his current harpy spit nails, accepting Andy's nod of appreciation along with her drink - tonight is a good night. She sips at her glass, the red wine smooth and lush on her tongue, and watches the dance floor, waiting for the music to match her mood. When the DJ switches to something halfway between ambient and trance it's perfect.

She bobbles the glass a little as she turns to set it on the bar. A few drops splash onto her arm, winding around to the inside of her wrist. She brings her hand to her mouth without thinking about it, tasting her sweat mingling with the wine, and laughs at herself before moving into the crowd.

Emily's not dancing _with_ anyone - she just lets herself get lost in the rhythm and the meandering melody, feeling it twine around her arms, her hips, her legs, her wrists. Face turned up, she curves and twists, watching the lights play in the haze.

She thinks, later, that the reason she turns around is because she can actually feel the weight of his gaze. He's back by the bar tonight, still wearing that priest's collar. If he'd been interested a week ago, tonight he's making no secret that he's basically undressing her where she stands. Tonight she's not Emily, so she smiles back at him slow and sly. She drops her head back, feeling the beat of the music, closing her eyes for a moment - when she looks back, he's gone.

It's disappointing, but there are other eyes on her and she's not going chasing after some damn priest when there's a world of other options. That's what she tells herself; she repeats it when the song ends. She decides to head back to the bar for another glass of wine.

Emily's leaning against the corner of the bar, waiting for Andy's attention, when a rough baritone murmurs, "May I?" She knows who it is before she turns around. His breath skitters over the curve of her shoulder and sends a shiver down her spine. He's standing there with two clean glasses and an open bottle, and she may not be Emily tonight, but she's not _stupid_, either.

But she isn't Emily, not tonight, so she takes more of a chance than she might some other night. "Only," she says, taking the wine from him and gesturing at Andy, who's finally paying attention, "if I choose the bottle."

Andy grins at her, and says, "Told you so," to the guy in the collar before he opens another in front of her.

The priest just laughs. "Don't trust a man in uniform?" he mocks gently.

He can't know, she thinks, feeling herself sliding back into Emily. "Never trust a priest," she replies. She's trying for smooth, teasing, urbane. It comes out as something more twisted.

He frowns, and she feels the evening slipping away from her until he reaches out and trails a finger down her upper arm. "Never's a long time to be afraid."

She glowers at him. "Fear has nothing to do with it." Emily twists on her heel and takes a step back towards the dance floor.

"Say it like that," he says behind her, his voice cutting through the din, "and I could almost believe you."

"Almost?" she demands, pivoting back to him. Damn him anyway, she thinks, reaching for her earlier mood. If she weren't Emily, if she were the woman she'd been when she walked in tonight, the answer would be easy. She lets her shoulders go loose, lets her body relax into the structure of the corset. "What would it take for you to be certain?"

He shrugs easily, offering up one of the empty glasses he's still holding. "Have a drink with me. You already chose the bottle. Shame to let it go to waste."

"Waste not, want not, Father?" Emily asks, and reaches for the glass.

He brushes his fingers against hers as she takes it. "I don't know about _want not_," he says, low enough that she has to take a step toward him. "That would take all the fun out of it."

She grins. "Wouldn't it just."

He pours. She catches his hand to steady the bottle and feels his muscles tense under her touch. When she looks back up, the heat's back in his eyes and her earlier confidence surges back in full. "You were here. Last week. Watching me."

"Not just you," he prevaricates.

"Maybe not," she answers, "but there's no one else here tonight."

"Not tonight." His agreement is rough, another unexpected truth in the middle of their game.

It should be unnerving to be this closely scrutinized. But Emily knows what she looks like tonight - knows she's relaxing back into the dress and the wine and the music - and so it isn't. It's heated and unexpected and slightly risky, and she wants more. "Why me?"

He sets his glass down carefully - takes hers and does the same - then reaches out and gently turns her around so she can see the dancing crowd. He's pulled her snug up against him. One hand is pressed gently against her stomach. The other gathers her hair and twists it to one side. His breath is warm against her ear and she arches back against him. "Because," he answers quietly, "you didn't look away."

"From what?" she murmurs. It seems very unfair that he is the only person doing any touching. She reaches up, languid, trailing her fingers through his hair, along his neck.

"From anything," he says, and it doesn't make sense to her, not really, not if she thinks about it, but she isn't Emily tonight and she doesn't have to think about it. Especially not when his hand has released her hair and started a slow glide along the line of her neck, down her shoulder, along her waist. "And then," he says, "I watched you dance. Wearing this."

Emily feels her lips curve into a smile. "And what," she asks, "did you think about that?"

"I thought," he answers, sliding his hand over her skirts, along the line of her thigh, "that I wanted to know what you had on underneath it."

His hands are warm, heavy. The taste of wine is still on her tongue. There's heat zinging through her, stiffening her nipples, throbbing in her clit. "Oh?" she says, remarkably calm. "What a limited imagination you have."

"And then," he continues, like he hasn't heard her, "I wondered what you'd sound like when I fucked you with my fingers. What you'd taste like on my hand. What you'd feel like when you came around me."

Emily is suddenly very grateful for his arm around her waist, because she hasn't ever had her knees do _that_ before. She's aware that his body has gone taut, his voice almost harsh. The damn corset's laced tight - she can't seem to get quite enough air.

"Then I thought," he says, "that I needed some way to convince you to come home with me. And it's a very good bottle of wine."

She manages to laugh and pull away. She's not Emily, not tonight, and she knows exactly what she wants to say next. "Who says," she asks, turning with an arched eyebrow and a smile, "that we have to go _home_?" The hunger that flares in his eyes sizzles over her skin. "Bring the wine," she says and saunters off with a deliberate sway to her hips.

There's a small set of tiny booths along the far wall of the club - velvet, high-walled, and curtained. They're a totally ridiculous indulgence, which is, of course, the point. Too often they're crowded with huge groups, and tonight's no different, but then her - her paramour, she thinks, laughing - catches up. She can't hear what he says to the current occupant, who's holding court while decked out in his own fishnets and heels, but suddenly the last booth is emptying with satisfying speed.

It's dark and shadowy inside, the gloom broken only by a stray reflection from the dance floor. She catches the barest fleck of grey at his temple, a flash of white from his collar, and then they're tucked back as far as possible. He reaches around her and tugs the curtain closed; they're secluded, enclosed, with just a sliver of the club visible through a chink.

The close quarters make Emily momentarily nervous, her pulse pounding, the boning in the corset tight against her ribcage. He's tugged her so she's curled into his lap, her skirts rucked up, but his hold is loose, easy. The merest brush of his thumb against her wrist, across the palm of her hand, is the only suggestion of an agenda.

She touches the side of his face, lets herself take advantage of the opportunity to explore. Even in the dim light, she can tell he's older than he'd looked in the haze of the club, feeling the lines at the corners of his eyes, the deeper furrows around his mouth. She touches his lips and he nips gently at the pad of her finger. There's an insistent heat and pressure making itself quite evident against her thigh.

"I think, Father," she says, her voice going throaty with the effort of keeping quiet, "that you'd been telling me your plans for the evening before we found a more suitable location." There's an odd freedom in using that title, in listening to the man's breathing shift, in feeling his body tense. "I hope you weren't lying."

"I think," he returns in kind, "that we are going to have other sins to worry about this evening." Before she can answer, he's leaning in and kissing her.

It isn't gentle. _He_ isn't gentle. He's demanding, tasting, testing. He isn't rough or rude - Emily's had enough of both not to have any patience with either. But he's not interested in moving slowly and that suits her - or the person she is tonight - just fine. She wraps a hand around his neck, the short hairs there prickling against her fingers. She fists the other into his shirt, using it as leverage as she turns to meet him halfway.

She tastes him shamelessly, discovering the smooth line of his teeth, the warm curl of his tongue, and she lets him taste her back. His lips are hot over her skin, against her mouth, taking her breath away like it belongs to him. Emily shifts again, straddling his thigh. He's warmth and strength compared to the cool, soft cushions, and she can't get enough - if she's going to take, she wants it all. She moves forward, rising up, catching his face between her hands and tipping it back. She touches her tongue to his, nips at his lower lip, refusing to ask and relishing the fact that he doesn't hesitate. When she pauses, it's because she's actually light-headed. The corset's biting into her harder now, her ribcage heaving. As she tilts her head back to get more air, it occurs to her that the corset's not the only reason she can't breathe.

He stretches up, laying a kiss at the base of her throat, just above her collarbone. One of his hands is on her hip, hot even through the layers of fabric. He's not grabbing, just steadying, and it's oddly reassuring. Then his other hand slips through the gather in the skirt, one finger tracing a long, slow path along the outside of her thigh, up and around her ass, stopping just below the line of the corset. Emily doesn't actually recognize the noise she makes. He repeats the gesture with his whole hand and the ragged sound that escapes her lips can only be called a moan.

She can see the self-satisfied smirk on his face even in the half-light filtering around the curtain. Anyone could see them if they brushed the curtain back. Anyone could see her. Tonight, she thinks, she might not mind being seen. The realization makes her pussy throb, makes her grind herself down against his thigh. One of her hands slips down to his chest, the material cotton-soft under her palm, and she feels, rather than hears, his rumble of approval.

She lets go, trusting him to keep her from slipping, and carefully, deliberately, rearranges her skirts, rucking them up so she can fit her hand between them, so she can work the buckle of his belt. The leather slides free of the metal without any trouble.

Emily realizes she doesn't know his name. Then she realizes she doesn't want him to tell her. He's looking up at her, eyes hooded and unreadable in the almost-dark. He hasn't said a word since they first kissed. She's not sure she wants him to do that either. Then he starts to talk, and she doesn't want him to _stop_.

"There's someone ten feet away," he says, so quietly she has to lean down, his breath stirring her hair as he whispers against her ear. "Ten feet." The hand on her hip shifts to splay against her back. He lets go of her ass to trace the top of her stocking. She's abruptly aware of the smell of her own arousal, the odor of wine on his breath. "Do you think they'll know?" he asks. She struggles to follow the line of the conversation. His hand moves higher, tugs at the scrap of damp silk between her legs, shifting it to the side. His finger traces along her inner thighs. She's breathing in short, erratic bursts, caught among the weight of his hand and the press of his chest and the strictures of the boning. "Do you think they'll have any idea," he asks again, "that I'm sitting here, with you?" She's clutching at his shoulders. "Do you think they'll know," he says a third time, "that I'm doing _this_?" He slides two fingers up and in, easy given how wet she is, crooking them just hard enough, all of it so fast that it makes her surge against him, shoulders back, head back, a gasp in her throat. It's bright and gorgeous and totally unexpected, for all she knew it was coming. For a minute she thinks she might come from this alone.

He barely moves, apart from a chuckle that sounds different, somehow, from his earlier laughter. Appreciative, rather than smug. As she fights herself back down, refusing to give in and just fuck herself on those long, strong fingers, he adjusts just a little, the pad of his thumb settling just next to her clit, indirect pressure that makes her shudder.

If she were herself tonight, she'd take him home. Or follow him home, maybe, though Emily's a cautious girl. Or she'd walk away. But she's not herself, she thinks, rocking experimentally against his hand. If she were herself, this wouldn't feel so good. She wouldn't be reaching out for it, greedy. She wouldn't be letting go of his shoulders, balanced between the fingers in her cunt and the hand on her back, to touch her nipples through the fabric of the corset - to pull at the fabric there until she can feel her own skin. She wouldn't roll a nipple between thumb and forefinger and hear him groan as the sensation makes her rock her hips against him again. She's not herself, Emily thinks, defiant, and she _wants_ this.

She snakes a hand back down between them and cups him firmly - not hard, just enough that she feels the involuntary jerk of his hips. Just enough to hear the breath he sucks in as she strokes down and up and down again. He'd asked her a question, she remembers.

"They'll only know," she says, her lips against his ear, "if you can't keep quiet, Father." She pops the button on his fly. He's holding so still she thinks he might've forgotten how to breathe. She tugs the zipper down slowly. "Silence is golden," she teases, and shivers again as he moves his fingers against her pussy, a quick, shallow stroke.

"I am not," he grits out, "a fucking monk."

She negotiates the opening of his boxers, careful not to touch him more than absolutely required, then licks a stripe along her palm. "Well," she answers, unable to keep the laughter out of her voice, "I certainly hope you're fucking _someone_ tonight." He laughs, and chokes on the tail of it as she palms his cock. She's good at hand jobs, and it's kind of gratifying to see him respond.

He is, she realizes, as his head falls back against the back of the bench, remarkably attractive. Strong lines, strong angles, thrown into relief by the glancing light. The tendons on his neck stand out starkly - he has been very turned on for quite some time. The thought makes arousal curl along her spine and she bucks hard against his hand. He licks his lips and looks back up at her. "I beg your pardon," he says dryly. "I've forgotten the Golden Rule."

"Mmm," she agrees, as his thumb makes a small circle just shy of where she really wants it. "Do unto others." She's working him over steadily, feeling the tension gathering in his thighs and abs as she moves again.

"My goal," he says, "is to do you. Which won't happen if you don't stop that right now." She blinks at him. He smiles back, oddly gentle, another unexpected thing, and then he takes her hand from his cock. Emily frowns, but then the hand on her back shifts lower, curling her hips forward, till she's leaning back, her elbows against the laminate of the table. His arm's holding her up, stretching her out. Her back arches, the corset catching tightly as she leans back, hair spilling over her shoulders. She has just a moment to grab for air before he sets up a rhythm that short-circuits her brain.

She can't think - can barely move, balanced as she is. His fingers take and take and take, invading her, seeking her out, and she wants it - aches for it - she'd chase it if she could, but she can't, can only let him take her there, this person she doesn't know. She's laid out here, light filtering in around her, and it's the thought of how she'd look if someone saw, stretched out there, wild and uncaring, that makes her come hard around his fingers.

Emily's hauling in air as he removes his hand, as he helps her shift and resettle. It's not enough, not even close. "Now," she rasps, almost chanting in her need. "Now, now, now." Sanity surfaces, just barely. "Condom," she manages, "because fuck, now. Now."

"Now," he agrees, and she sees him pull the packet out, tear the foil, roll the condom on. "Right now," he demands, and she's in total accord. "Turn around." She doesn't stop to argue, just does it, gathering her skirts and cursing at the bustle until his hands settle at her waist. "Hold still," he says, and laughs when she hisses in impatience.

His knees nudge hers apart, till she's straddling his legs. Then he wraps an arm around her, under her skirts, urging her back and down, slowly and carefully. She pauses when she feels his cock against her entrance, hears him curse and feels his arm tense. They take a minute, adjusting, and then his arm tightens, and she's sinking on to him, his arm still around her, feeling full and gorgeous and needy. Whomever she is tonight, she _wants_ this.

His hands are wrapped around her hips. Her skirts are tumbled every which way, the lining of the corset rubbing against her skin with every movement. She leans back into him, feeling his cock in her, feeling the stretch, the slight pull in her thighs. She feels his head drop forward, feels him press kisses into her shoulder, along the curve of her neck, and reaches up to hold him to her. "Now," she orders again. "Fuck me. Now."

He laughs or groans or something in between and she feels him shudder. "_Now_," she demands, shifting her hips, grinding back as best as the angle allows. "I want it. Can't you tell how much I want it?" She reaches up and pinches at her nipple, whining at the sharp prick of pleasure. "I'm so wet for it. For your dick. In my pussy." She moves again, breathing hard, feeling her body start to chase after the feeling. "_Now_," she says, desperate. She reaches down, needing the pressure on her clit, needing something more, but her skirt is in the way and his hands are holding her against him. "Touch me, damn you," she snaps.

His thumb is on her clit almost as the words leave her mouth. It's both a relief and not nearly enough. She leans back into his shoulder, her feet fighting for traction against the floor, and the shift in angle makes her clench around him. Which is apparently all it takes, because he starts to move, and Emily forgets how to think.

She can feel every inch of him, every thrust, every shiver. Whatever had held him back has disappeared - he's fucking her with short, rapid strokes, his thumb a slow, rolling pressure just where she needs it most. A sweet, tight ache is curling out along her body, tension humming in her calves, her arms, her abs, her thighs - in the arches of her feet and the line of her neck - building and building until she's almost sobbing with it, aching for air. She's trapped, the corset a band around her ribs, stealing her air, his cock filling her cunt, his thumb pressing against her clit. It's amazing until it's almost too much, until a sudden combination of just right and right there shatters her into a million pieces. It's like flying apart, every muscle trembling with it, and as she hears him gasp and feels him jerk beneath her, the sudden warmth and pressure sends her over the edge again, softer this time, gentle and shivering and utterly gone.

Time goes soft around the edges. She's vaguely aware that the music is still thumping away on the other side of the curtain. His arms are still wrapped around her, holding her against him. She feels boneless, her head turned into the crook of his neck, breathing in the smell of sweat and wine and cologne. He shifts beneath her; she manages an inarticulate protest. "Shh," he murmurs, his lips against her temple. "Stand up, just a second." She grumbles but complies, feeling oddly empty as he slips from her. There's a moment where she has to lean against the table, shaky with the burn in her calves and thighs. She hears him strip off the condom, feels him shift behind her. Then his hands are back on her waist, smoothing at her skirts.

Emily's brain is threatening to restart. There's a thin layer of endorphins between her and a tumble of thoughts that have started to roil. She doesn't want to let them break over her, not just yet. She lets him tug her down, wrapping an arm around her, till she's tucked between him and the wall, her legs across his lap, her face against his chest. Not yet, she thinks, and rubs her face against the cotton of his shirt.

His hand is warm against her shoulder. She's sweaty, her hair sticking and clinging and feathering in a way that is about three minutes from driving her completely insane. When she shivers with a sudden chill, he settles her closer and strokes a lazy path down her arm. It's lovely and snug and she tries to burrow into it, her eyes closed. She reaches up, curling a hand against his neck, tracing along the line of his jaw and then down to his collar. It's not till she touches the cool plastic of the white insert that reality crashes down. She drops her hand.

She's just had sex. Very good sex. Very public sex. With a man she's never met before. Who is wearing a priest's collar. Who had, at least, thought about a condom. Whose name she does not know. Because she did not ask. And she'd been the one to drag him to the booth. She can't even blame the alcohol - she's had maybe three glasses of wine tonight. She hiccups a breath, aware that her pulse is racing again. The things she'd said to him - she'd been completely unfiltered. And it had been _fantastic_. She's not sure what, exactly, terrifies her more: the fact that she hasn't been acting like herself or the possibility that she has.

He's still rubbing gentle lines along her arms, his head tilted back against the cushions. She can't imagine he's missed that she's having - has had - a minor panic attack, but he's kind enough to ignore it. It's the kindness, oddly, that puts her chin up. She doesn't need condescension. This has been as least as good for him as it has for her. Emily reaches for the persona she's worn all night and imagines it settling around her like a cloak as she forces her breathing steady, letting the boning in the corset substitute for her spine.

She stays still a moment, gathering herself. Then she twists a little in his arms, setting her feet firmly on the floor. He lets her go when she stands, leaning into him in the small space. She's thankful he doesn't try to hold her. She can just see his face in the light coming in around the curtain. He seems softer, looser, the tension around the corners of his eyes a little lessened. Anyone looking at him would think him entirely relaxed - if they could ignore the sharp, almost wary look lurking at the back of his eyes. Maybe, she thinks, looking at him - maybe kindness is okay.

She smiles, surprising herself, and brushes her thumb against the corner of his mouth. Her lipstick is everywhere, she realizes, and blushes. There's pale powder on the front of his shirt. "You're a mess," she says quietly.

"Like you can talk," he answers, but his tone matches hers.

She leans down till her lips are nearly against his. "Sign of a good night," she murmurs. Then she does kiss him, simply, just a touch of their lips. When she pulls back a little, his eyes are closed. "Thanks," she says, and slips past him and around the curtain without waiting to see if he watches her go.

There's a back door that puts out just down the street; she gets through it without running into anyone she knows. It's late enough that she calls a cab - the streets are pretty bare. She makes it home and in the door and into her room without losing her composure. It's not till she's fumbling with the laces on the corset that she lets her hands shake. She steps into the shower, washing the smoke out of her hair and the makeup off of her face. When she steps out and bundles her hair into a towel, her lips are still puffy and there's a suspicious-looking red mark just below the juncture of shoulder and neck. She looks at herself in the mirror and wonders what, exactly, happened tonight. She flicks off the light and curls into bed and wonders why, exactly, she doesn't regret it.

Emily never does bring herself to get rid of that corset. She hangs it in her closet with the others. Every so often she brushes her hand over it, and she wonders.

\-----

And a beta-requested outtake....

_"She can't hear what he says to the current occupant, who's holding court while decked out in his own fishnets and heels, but suddenly the last booth is emptying with satisfying speed."_

_It's a bad idea,_ says the voice in the back of Dave's head. It sounds a lot like Bill, but his partner's not here, not this time. Tonight he's on vacation, a full week of it, all because of the woman behind him. She's all in black, slim and delicate and _young_, his brain tries again, but he's watched her hold her own and he has no doubt that if she hadn't been interested, she'd have sent him packing. Instead, she'd headed towards the curtained alcoves at the side of the club, and that's enough that he doesn't waste a moment in catching up to her.

He passes her, actually, because the booths are all full and he is not _about_ to let that get in the way. The kid who's the center of attention looks like something out of Dave's vaguer recollections of the seventies - Ziggy Stardust meets Dracula. He bridles when Dave walks up, the rest of his coterie frowning in distaste. Dave could not care less. He holds the kid's stare until the boy looks away, and then all he says is, "Time to go." He doesn't have to _say_ anything else - he's pretty sure his body language is making it clear that there's an easy way and a hard way, and he'd been damn sure which way this kid would jump before he opened his mouth.

Ziggy leaves just as the girl in the corset catches up.


	2. A Glass of Wine and Thee (2/2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for the prompt: "At a college goth party/club, Prentiss has sex with a guy she later recognizes as David Rossi. Either Rossi figures it out later, or she tells him before they sleep together again. Bonus points for Rossi in a priest collar (first encounter) or Prentiss digging out one of her old corsets because it makes her come hard."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title has its roots in the [Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rubaiyat_of_Omar_Khayyam). For [](http://smittywing.livejournal.com/profile)[**smittywing**](http://smittywing.livejournal.com/), just because, with huge kudos to [](http://mingsmommy.livejournal.com/profile)[**mingsmommy**](http://mingsmommy.livejournal.com/) and [](http://smacky30.livejournal.com/profile)[**smacky30**](http://smacky30.livejournal.com/), for cheering, beating, and betaing. The fact that there are no mysterious extra limbs is due to their influence. The fact that I ignored their comments about the past perfect is no one's fault but my own. This started out as kink!meme comment!fic but got long. Stop laughing. SPOILERS: Through 4.24, Amplification.

\-----

_What we anticipate seldom occurs, but what we least expect generally happens._

\-- Benjamin Disraeli

\-----

David Rossi really never expected to come back to the BAU. But Gideon finally had the breakdown they all knew was coming and Erin Strauss had landed the position she'd been gunning for since time immemorial, and Dave has always liked Hotch way too much not to do him this favor. Even if Hotch wasn't the one that had asked. Besides, Dave figures, financial independence counts for a lot. He can always leave.

Except he doesn't actually want to.

He likes this team. Likes the way they work together. If he'd had a team like this, he thinks, he might never have left. Not that his BAU had been familiar with the concept of team - at least not like this. Dave is sufficiently self-aware to acknowledge that in all probability, he'd been a chunk of the reason for that fact.

But he does like them, individually and in aggregate. He likes Morgan's refusal to back down unless given reason. He likes Reid, although he's grateful not to have the care and feeding of him. He likes JJ's ruthless blend of steel and femininity, and her ability to use both as needed. He likes Penelope Garcia, for all he doesn't have words to describe her.

And he is slightly, irrationally fond of one Emily Prentiss, for reasons he's not entirely sure he understands.

At first it had been easy to chalk it up to Emma. Some torches are slow to burn out, and Dave's never denied he has a type. They're hardly twins - Emily's tall and leggy to Emma's petite curves - but there's a certain similarity related to dark hair and pale skin and eyes that give away more than intended. In Prentiss's case, her eyes had warned him early on that she was wary of him. It hadn't affected anything - Emily Prentiss, he has learned, is a champion at compartmentalization - but that look had been there. Sometimes, every now and then, it still is - and he wonders why.

Dave's never so much as blinked inappropriately in the direction of any of the women on this team. He's far too attached to his balls: if the injured party didn't remove them, the rest of the team would be waiting. He is well aware that his reputation precedes him. But he's always tried to tread carefully, and so it stings a little, that even now he'll still catch that look in her eyes.

Because it's not just Emma - and it hadn't taken long to figure that out. If pressed, he'd probably chalk it up to a bar in Indiana and her refusal to back away from the miserable bastard he'd been set on being that day. It's not just that, though. She's a damn good agent, competent and intelligent and intuitive in the field. That complete fuck-up of an affair over in Colorado had been excruciating, and he knows Morgan and Hotch would say exactly the same. Dave doesn't have to guess what Reid would say - he'd seen the kid's face when he'd stumbled clear of the explosion, and after, when the EMTs had been patching Prentiss up.

So yes, Emily Prentiss has the drive and passion to number among the best. And that explains why he likes working with her, but not why he can't seem to get her out from under his skin. It might be her sense of humor, from which no one escapes, not even Hotch. It might be the fact that she tries hard to be kind, that he's seen her stop and remind herself to be patient. It might be her sense of loyalty, and the fact that he knows full well she'd put herself on the line for anyone she thought deserved it. He's honored to be among that august group. It might be her temper, or her stubbornness, or her tendency toward sarcasm when she's frustrated or tired or simply undercaffeinated, or the weirdly familiar tilt to her chin when her dander's up.

He's spent a slightly terrifying amount of time thinking about this, but he can't figure it out and he can't shake it.

Even if he could, he wouldn't want to any more. Not since he saw her walk into the BAU looking like the world was ending. Not since an old friend warned him to take care of her and he realized just how much he wanted to. Not since she broke his heart in a vacant lot over a cup of really terrible coffee.

He should be way too old for this shit - only apparently he's not. What he _is_, however, is old enough to know that Emily Prentiss is not the kind of girl to endanger the job she loves with ill-considered shenanigans, and that he likes her too much to even propose it. He's also old enough to be content with a working relationship that's turned into a remarkably comfortable friendship. But he does regret that she's still not quite sure about him - even if it's only every once in a while.

Today, with the entire defense community on red alert and an anthrax attack in full swing, he's glad of that stubborn streak, of that ability to stay focused. If they're going to hell in a hand basket, she's the person he'd choose to partner up with.

He knows it's costing her. He knows what it's costing him. It's why he's so short with her at Nichols' lab. It's why he warns her off at Nichols' house. She's asking all the questions he doesn't like the answers to, and the fact that she's right only makes the answers harder to offer her. "Don't Emily me," she retorts, with a lift of her chin. He deserves it. He deserves it, and for the life of him, he can't figure out why that particular tic of hers is so damn familiar.

It's not till he's back at his desk, resisting the urge to rest his forehead on his blotter and pass out, that the epiphany occurs. He doesn't know what provokes it - it may simply be that they've had a hell of a run of cases and his brain's so tired that his internal filing system's broken down. One minute he's replaying the conversation in his head, laughing at Prentiss's response and admitting he owes her an apology. The next minute he's remembering a very similar gesture in a very different context, from a pale young woman in a black corset in a club he'd never set foot in a third time, as she considered whether or not to accept a glass of wine.

Dave doesn't think he actually stops breathing, but he's pretty damn sure that it's not healthy for realization to hit someone quite so _hard_. He should have spotted it long ago. Garcia, Reid, and Morgan have made certain to show him Prentiss's high school yearbook. He knows she'd been at Yale - even knows when she'd graduated. The ages work out about right, although the gap's a little worse than he'd copped to at the time. And knowing what he does now, there's suddenly a huge chunk of that very, very fond memory that makes a lot more sense.

"Fuck," he mutters, rubbing his hands over his face. It doesn't technically change anything. Except that now, any time he thinks about the possibility of Emily Prentiss, he's going to have a very, very vivid picture of what, exactly, that possibility might be like.

None of which, he realizes, changes the fact that he owes her an apology for today, or the fact that she appears to be getting ready to head for the door. Epiphany or not, he wants the immediate issue settled before today is over. Dave grabs his keys, shoves back from the desk, and flicks off the light.

It's easy enough once he catches up to her - she lets him off the hook far easier than he'd expected. She still doesn't like his answers. He can't really blame her.

"And yet - next time, I probably won't hesitate to lie again," she says.

Dave tries to focus on the conversation. He feels like he owes her something, some reassurance, but he's damned if he knows what and half his brain's just been entirely distracted. He keeps his eyes on the door, struggling for some kind of equilibrium. "We've got a lot of things to take with us to the grave," he replies as the doors slide closed. There's a brief silence. Looking back, Dave isn't ever sure what provokes him into adding, "Some of them are better than others."

"Oh really?" she drawls. The doors open onto the lobby and he follows her across to the parking elevators. "Such as?"

He could back out. There are a million answers he could give - David Rossi knows full well he's been a pretty lucky guy. He doesn't have to dig this hole. He really shouldn't. With a clearer head, maybe he wouldn't. Only it's been a revelatory fifteen minutes in Dave's life and he's not that good. He waits until the doors close again, hands in his pockets, feigning nonchalance - feigning it badly, he's pretty sure. Somewhere between P1 and P2, he answers, "For me? July twenty-first, nineteen ninety-three. One night with a gorgeous woman in a black corset in a Goth club in New Haven. She left me," he says, as the door slides open on P4, "without looking back. This is my stop," he adds unnecessarily and steps out. "See you Monday." He sounds flippant, he knows, but his palms are sweating. He hears the doors shut and wonders what the hell just possessed him. He knows full well he's already regretting it.

Except then he hears Emily's voice behind him, low and a little choked. "How - you know," Emily says. "How long have you known?"

Dave never forgets the first thought that makes it through his head: she didn't have to say that. She didn't have to blow her cover. She could have played it off. She could have stayed on the elevator. She didn't have to say that.

It's what lets him turn around.

Emily's face is pale, two spots of color high on her cheeks. The fluorescents overhead don't spare a damn thing: the shadows under her eyes, the tightness around her mouth, the slight crinkling at the corners of her eyes. The light catches on her hair, on the line of her cheek, on the small gold pendant at her collarbone. But then she lifts her head a fraction and says, "How long?" again, the demand clear, and there's a moment of double vision so clear it makes his head spin.

"I don't know how I could have missed it," he answers slowly. He's really talking to himself; it's a trick of acoustics that bounces it over the asphalt and into her silence.

She turns her head to the side, not quite a flinch. "Don't worry. What could I possibly tell anyone?"

The bitterness in her voice stings, brings the world back into focus. That's not - he didn't - he doesn't know exactly what she's thinking, but he's damn sure it's wrong. "No," he manages, the word thick and stupid in his mouth. "Prentiss - Emily, no." He reaches out without thinking about it. She steps backward to avoid it, for all he's six feet away. Her back's practically up against the elevator door. Don't open, he thinks. Don't open. Not yet.

He lets his hand drop. Pay _attention_, his brain suggests, as he realizes that her shoulders are squared hard enough to ache. Her hand is holding her jacket so tightly her knuckles are white. "Twenty minutes," he says finally. "Give or take. I've known for twenty minutes."

She looks at him, which is at least progress. "I don't know if I'm horrified or flattered. Clearly," she says, swallowing, "I need a better moisturizer."

It is entirely possible that she's regaining her balance far quicker than he is. Of course, that would make sense if - "How long for you?"

"Oh," Emily answers, her voice cracking as it aims for blasé and misses. "Since I saw your photo on the book jacket when I was at the Academy."

Dave's brain is racing. "So when I started -"

She shifts uneasily. "I wondered if it would be a problem. But you - it wasn't -" she stops. "I didn't have the easiest start here." Emily tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I wasn't going to bring it up unless -"

"Unless it became an issue." He nods, accepting her reasoning for what it is. It sounds like the Prentiss he knows. It explains a lot. Pretty much everything. "It wouldn't," he says, and honesty compels him to add, "not with you." Dave is fully aware that he can be a bastard, that even now he's not sure that if it had been someone else, someone who was not Emily Prentiss, that he would've let it lie. "It wouldn't," he repeats, uncomfortable with the admission. "It won't."

He doesn't miss the way the tension in her body eases. He's ruthless as he schools his face and smiles at her. Nothing's changed. Not really. A one-night stand well over a decade ago doesn't add anything of import to handful of what-ifs and half-considered possibilities. Common sense still applies. Twenty minutes hasn't changed a thing. "It's okay," he says, lying. "Good night, Emily."

Dave walks away, fumbling in his pocket for the car key. He's gone some eight or nine steps when her voice rings out behind him. "Funny thing is," she says calmly, "sometimes I wish it would."

The part of Dave's brain responsible for higher-level motor control ceases to function. He's getting old, he thinks. System overload is a terrible thing. He doesn't move.

"Sometimes," Emily says, and in the quiet of the garage he can hear her boot heels click as she takes a step forward. "I wonder. Because there was this guy, this one time." She pauses. He thinks he can hear her breathe. "Just after I finished at Yale."

Some synapse kicks back in and lets him turn around. "Yeah?" he says, as deadpan as he can manage.

"Yeah." He watches her as she fidgets, adjusting another lock of hair. "And he - well. I didn't - I was someone else. Just once. Just for that night."

David Rossi has been a profiler for almost exactly thirty years. He's talked to unsubs, victims, families, cops - he's developed strategies and techniques and methods. But now, when it counts, none of those skills are telling him where this conversation is going to end up. So he shuts up and listens like the world depends on it.

This time, Emily doesn't look away under his scrutiny. "Only the thing is," she says, "I wasn't. Not really. Part of it - so much of it - it was me." She smiles. "It was me, and it was amazing."

Dave swallows. "Amazing's a good word." There's a pressure in his chest that feels a little like hope. It's probably a heart attack. That's what happens when old men suddenly expand their horizons.

Emily blushes. She'd done that before, he thinks. That night. Before she'd left. It had been dark, but she'd lost enough of that pale, pale makeup on his shirt that he could see the tint on her cheeks. He can still remember the way the air had smelled, cigarette smoke and face powder and sex. "It's kind of terrifying when you're twenty-two," she admits. "It was huge." She takes another few steps toward him. "And all I ever said was 'thanks.'"

He doesn't know what he's planning to say when he opens his mouth, but then the elevator dings and they both jump. Hotch emerges, looking wrung out. He pauses when he sees them. An eyebrow lifts, speaking volumes, but all Aaron says is, "Problems?"

"No, sir," Emily says.

"Just discussing the pressing need for a decent glass of wine," Dave temporizes. "It's been a hell of a day."

Hotch's eyebrow doesn't move. Somewhere between Dave leaving and Dave returning, Aaron Hotchner has learned to bluff well enough that Dave can't always read him anymore. Damn proteges, he thinks, picking up useful skills when you're not around. Damn Hotch's timing, more to the point. "I have a bottle with my name on it," Dave offers. "You're both welcome to share." What he'll do if they both accept, Dave doesn't know. But while he can't read Hotch entirely, he can read enough of the man's body language to make a reasonable bet.

"The bottle?" Aaron asks drily.

"Hell no," Dave answers. "I'll find another for you. Even write 'Hotch' on there in permanent marker."

Hotch laughs. "I'll pass. But I'll take a raincheck."

"Done," Dave says. "Prentiss?" The parking garage isn't really where he wants to have the conversation they're currently muddling through. And with Hotch here, the invitation's natural. Easy. Not born of a sudden fear that she's going to turn and slip away.

"You know," she says slowly, "that sounds like a damn good idea. Just let me run home first."

"I'll call and leave you directions," he agrees. "Say, nine o'clock?"

Hotch says a quiet goodnight and walks off as Emily checks her watch. "Should be doable," she says. Her eyes are wide and dark as she glances up at him.

"Just wine," Dave says softly. "Just a drink."

"Nine o'clock," she answers and heads for the stairwell.

Dave doesn't move as he watches her go - it's not till he hears Hotch's car start that he realizes he's standing in the middle of the parking garage like an idiot, staring at nothing. Then he shrugs, shakes his head like it'll help clear it, and gets in his car.

Nine o'clock, he thinks. He wraps his hands around the steering wheel, but he's remembering the shape of her under his fingers - the arch of her back, the curve of her arm, the line of her jaw. He's thinking about the fact that half an hour ago, Emily Prentiss was safely out-of-bounds, off-limits, untouchable. He's thinking about the fact that just maybe, just maybe that isn't the case. Just maybe, memory and fantasy might actually be aligning. Just maybe, he'll be a luckier sonofabitch than he deserves.

He wonders if she'll really come. She hadn't run, even given a chance. He hopes she'll come. He thinks she will, but he's not noted for his record in this particular area.

He wonders as he leaves the garage, as he leaves a message on her cell, as he pulls out a red and a white and the corkscrew.

He wonders right up until nine o'clock, when the doorbell rings - at which point he wonders what the hell he'd been thinking. It's not that he regrets it - it's that he has absolutely no idea what happens next. Dave is generally someone who likes to have a gameplan.

From the look on Emily's face when he opens the door, he's not the only one wondering what's about to happen. He steps back and lets her in. "White or red?" he asks, taking her coat. He wants to linger, wants to run a palm over and down her shoulders. He settles for standing just a hair closer than necessary. She doesn't back away.

"White," she answers. Another night, she'd said red. He remembers the way she'd looked, licking droplets off her wrist. He remembers the taste of it on her tongue. She trails him to the kitchen, watches as he uncorks the bottle. No one says a word, but the silence isn't unpleasant. Just a stillness. A waiting. It's not fragile - still, he doesn't want to break it.

He hands her a glass and their fingers brush. He tenses. Her cheeks flush. He looks away and pours his own.

"You owe me," Emily says into the quiet.

Dave freezes, the glass halfway to his lips. "What?"

She grins at him. It's a little hesitant, but it's the same grin he's known for almost two years of field work. "You promised me a bottle with my name on it."

He barks a laugh. "C'mon." He waves a hand at her as he walks around the island. "Sit down."

He leaves her the couch, wanting to give her room, and settles into the armchair. She's toying with her glass, tracing the rim. The wine's a nice white, but neither of them are paying it the attention it deserves. "So," he ventures.

"So." Emily's eyes meet his. "I'm not twenty-two any more, Dave." It's not a challenge - just a simple statement of fact.

"I'm not thirty-eight." He takes another sip. "Thank God. Some things do change."

She smiles wryly, twisting the stem of the glass between her fingers. "Lots of things."

"Not everything," he says quickly.

Emily goes still.

"Not this," Dave murmurs. He watches her take a breath, looks at the color in her cheeks, the splay of her fingers around the glass.

David Rossi is nearly fifty-four and all his life, he's gone after what he wanted and regretted the things that got away. He's learned, in the same space of time, that you don't always get what you want, no matter how hard you try. But now Emily Prentiss is sitting on his couch and he'd bet his career that the tension in her body isn't fear. Nerves, sure. Something else, maybe, if he's luckier than he deserves. "Not this."

"What _is_ this?" Emily demands. "I don't have any idea." She shakes her head. "Three hours ago," she says drily, "I was much better at compartmentalizing."

"Three hours ago," Dave replies, "I still wanted to touch you. I just didn't know that I knew what it felt like. I didn't know that _you_ knew what it felt like."

Emily licks her lips and takes a drink. Her color's high and her breathing a little shallow, but he can't be sure he's right about what she's thinking. All he can do is hope. He watches the line of her throat as she swallows. "It was easier if I assumed you didn't know," she offers.

Sometimes, Dave thinks, maybe you get a second chance. "It didn't exactly matter," he says slowly. He's never been so tongue-tied. He leans forward and sets his glass on the coffee table, fully aware that he's avoiding her eyes. He rests his hands on his knees - at least that way they're holding onto _something_. He's so damn full of want he doesn't trust them not to reach out and take. "It's been almost two years since I first wanted to kiss you." He considers that sentence. "Again. Apparently."

A long, slender finger traces over his knuckles. He twists his wrist and catches her hand before it pulls away. He's too greedy not to. When he looks up, her eyes are dark. "Promise me," Emily says, "that we'll talk about the difficult stuff in the morning."

"I promise," Dave manages, ninety-five percent of his brainpower stuck on "in the morning." "I really do." He feels a slow grin start. "I suppose I should warn you," he adds, watching her smile grow to match his own, until they must look like a pair of lunatics, "I'm about thirty seconds from kissing you."

It is a blessedly short distance from the armchair to the couch. Movement, it turns out, doesn't actually require conscious thought. Dave's kneeling in front of her, joints be damned, without knowing exactly how he got there. He's got one hand in her hair and one on her cheek and he's tugging her face down to his.

"What the hell took you so long?" Emily murmurs, even as he watches her eyes flutter closed.

"Damned if I know," he says, and then he pulls her in and kisses her, letting his own eyes fall shut. It's simple, quiet and undemanding, stretching out around them. Her hands feather over his cheek and jaw, coming to rest on his shoulders. Her hair is silky against his palm. His other hand slips to her neck, feels the thud of her pulse, rapid but steady, strong and real. He tastes the wine on her lips, tests the corner of her mouth, and lets her steal his breath away.

He doesn't let go when the need for air forces them to pause. He's not sure he knows how, and he's positive he should be more alarmed by that fact than he is. He just tips his forehead to lean against hers. "Damned if I know," he says again, "but I got there in the end."

Emily sits back and studies his face, her hand on his cheek, her thumb tracing over his skin. The bone-deep need that's been simmering all evening is rising, clamoring for attention, and Dave's done trying to hide it. She bites at her lower lip and he sees an answering spark in her own eyes. "Thank God," she replies. "It's about time."

When she kisses him back, it isn't simple at all.

Dave's never forgotten that night. From the moment she'd walked away, he'd set himself to remembering. He'd been newly single and rawly bitter and entirely floored by what he'd intended as simple amusement. So he'd wanted to remember the taste of her mouth and the scent of her skin and the touch of her hair - not out of some hopeless sense of romance, he'd assured himself, but because something that good just didn't happen twice. Only now he can feel the beat of her pulse under soft, soft skin, and he can hear the murmur trembling in her throat, and he can taste her, dark and sweet and familiar, and all those memories pale in comparison.

He pulls her off the sofa without stopping to think; he's greedy now, all that caution and hesitation overridden by the desperate ache in his fingers, his arms, his spine, his cock. He folds her against him, hearing her laugh in surprise. He's got a hand buried in her hair, cradling the curve of her skull, strands of hair catching against his fingertips. He should stop, give her space to breathe, but Emily doesn't seem to want it. Her hands are everywhere and her mouth on his is insistent. When she presses against him, one hot palm sliding under his jeans and boxers to cup his ass, he bucks hard against her.

He's vaguely aware that he's saying her name, saying Emily and Prentiss in the space between kisses, breathing her in like he's been drowning for years. _Be reasonable_, part of him thinks, but the rest of him isn't paying attention, because here, now, reason has nothing to do with it. He slips his hands in the back pockets of her jeans and tugs her closer, smiling as she nips at the corner of his mouth and then hauling in air as she curves into him, the pressure and friction against his dick so damn good. He rucks up her sweater, wanting the heat of her skin, and stops when his fingers find satin and boning and the trailing edge of a ribbon.

In a smoky room, a dark-eyed, dark-haired girl in a dark corset holds a glass of wine in her hand, chin tilted and eyebrow raised, her lips curving into something sweet and sly and hot. For a moment, he's not sure where he is. Then he spans her waist with his hands, the fabric snagging gently on his palms and fingers, and when he opens his eyes, it's Emily looking back at him, still dark-eyed and dark-haired, lips full, hair rumpled and wild, cheeks brightly flushed. It's her, it's that girl, but now, too, it's Emily Prentiss. It's not the same - it's not even the same corset - and yet somehow, it is - only better, memory and reality combining into something more. It's just _better_, because now he knows what put the wariness in her face, what accounts for some of the small creases around her mouth, why there's something just a little careful in her eyes. It's _Emily_, someone he trusts at his back, at his side, on his team, and she's watching him, and the small smile quirking her lips is still sweet, still hot - but just a little wiser.

"I did stop at home," she says after a moment, and Dave's glad, because speech appears to have deserted him entirely. "And I thought, well, why not? Maybe it won't be just a drink." She bites at her lip, studying his face, and then her smile turns into a full-on grin. "And then I thought, maybe he wouldn't mind knowing how hard wearing one makes me come." She traces a finger over the outline of his dick as she says it, and he groans.

"That sounds like a dare," Dave says, trying for nonchalant and completely betrayed by the ragged edge to his voice.

He feels her laugh under his hands. "Consider it a challenge," she says, pressing hungry, open kisses along his neck. Her hands are untucking his shirt.

"Accepted," he manages, then pulls them both to their feet before she can distract him any further. "But that means I set the terms. And my terms say the bedroom is a _much_ better choice." He's not sure he's ever made it up the stairs so quickly. He doesn't release her hand, doesn't ask himself why, but she doesn't protest at being towed. It's not till they're in his room that he lets go and turns to look at her.

The heat's still there - his pulse is rapid and the stairs aren't the reason. The urge to touch, to haul her up against him still tingles in his fingers. But he isn't thirty-eight any longer, and some part of him needs to give her this one last chance to walk away. "Prentiss," he says, letting his hands fall to his sides.

"Dave," she answers, her voice calm. "Stop giving me chances to run." She tugs her sweater over her head and walks to stand in front of him, jeans low on her hips, her skin creamy against blue satin of her corset. It's a soft color, not pale, but delicate, setting off the flush on her skin. It laces up both sides and Dave has a desperate need to undo it, to pull the laces free and watch it slide away. "I didn't before." She puts a hand on his chest, undoes the highest button. "I don't want to now."

The noise he makes should be embarrassing, but he can't seem to care. He cups her face, falling into the heat of her mouth as he kisses her, falling into the play of her muscles as he lets go and smooths his hands over her shoulders and down her arms. She fumbles with the buttons on his shirt, grumbling at them between kisses; in the end, her patience gives out and she just yanks, popping the last two off.

"Easy," he says, breathless. _We've got time,_ he wants to say, but he's distracted by the rise and fall of her breasts, caught by the corset, round and warm and just right in his hands. He brushes his thumbs over the satin, feeling her shudder. The heat of her hands on his bare chest makes him tense, his eyes tight shut, only to fly open as she leans in and sets her tongue to his nipple. Her hands tug gently at his belt, pop his fly and slip into his boxers. He's been some variant of hard since before she walked in the door, and even if he wanted to, he couldn't stop the noise he makes when she touches him. "Easy," he says again, catching her wrists.

She looks up into his face, and there's more than just need written there. "I want to _touch_ you," she demands, eyes bright, but she takes the hint and eases her hand away. "I want - I never -"

"I know," Dave answers, because he does, he _does_. "Emily, I know. But we have all night." Maybe more than that, he thinks, and promptly shoves that to the back of his brain. That's for later, for the morning. This is just for them. He lifts her hand to his mouth and salutes it, an old-fashioned move, maybe, but he's sort of an old-fashioned guy, and it makes her eyes go hot and heavy-lidded.

"That's true," she admits. "And this time there's no one ten feet away."

"Not a damn soul," he answers. She taps his cheek with one slim finger and smiles, at which point Dave gives up the pretense of any kind of control over the evening.

"Rossi," Emily Prentiss says slowly and clearly, "get naked. Now." She's skimming out of her jeans and underwear even as she speaks. Dave doesn't hesitate, toeing off shoes and socks and shedding clothing as fast as he can manage.

He's just shrugging off his shirt when she starts to reach for the lacing on the corset. "No," he says, and she freezes. "You made me a promise."

Emily looks blank for a moment, then grins, smoothing her hands down her sides. "I think you've got it reversed." She takes a step towards him and he remembers that sway in her hips. "I think you promised to show me how hard I could come."

She's close enough that he can reach out and pull her to him, the satin cool against his cock, her skin warm under his hands. "I think," he says against her ear, leaning down just enough to let his breath brush against a certain half-remembered spot, "that I can make you come even harder after I take it off."

Her hands fist against his shoulders as her head falls back. Dave's been watching the line of Emily Prentiss's throat for nearly two years, and it's still one of the most gorgeous things he's ever seen. She swallows hard, rubbing her calf along the outside of his leg. He can feel her breathing, feel the quick intake, feel satin and boning catch and hold, forcing the exhale. She shivers again, then opens her eyes. "First," she says, pulling back just enough to put her hands on his chest, pushing him backwards until he bumps up against the bed, "first, I get to touch you."

He sits when she nudges at his shoulders, but he's never been particularly good at consistently following orders, so he reaches for her, pulling her closer, his hands tracing down her thighs. Her breath hitches, but she just pushes back, till he's flat on the bed, feet on the floor, entirely at her mercy and likely to die a very, very happy man. She cat-crawls up the bed next him, propping herself up on one arm, the other laying trails across his chest, down his stomach, along his collarbone. She plucks gently at his nipple and laughs gently when he hisses. "I wanted this," she says quietly. "After. When I went home." They're watching each other.

He reaches out, running the back of his fingers over her cheek and answers the question she isn't asking. "I was there for a case the first time." Her hand glides lower and he fights to keep his eyes open, to hold onto the train of thought. "The second time," Dave breathes in sharply as she skims her nails along his thighs, "the second time I was there to look for you." He loses the battle, eyes shutting with the effort of hanging on to willpower.

She shifts, and the next thing he can feel is the her hair against his stomach. He fists his hands in the duvet, willing himself not to grab. He's tense with anticipation, so much so that when her fingers brush his balls, it's a shock. "I went home and got myself off, the first time" Emily says, and his dick throbs in answer. "Didn't even make it out of the corset." Her breath is hot against his stomach.

"And the second time?" Dave manages, voice thick.

"I thought about doing this," Emily answers and closes her mouth around the head of his cock. Dave's world actually sort of greys out. It's hot and wet and suction and most of all, it's something that was wholly impossible all of five hours ago, which may be why he can't help thrusting up, just a little, because he hasn't quite processed that this is real. She settles her free hand on his hip, holding him steady, her thumb tracing tiny circles over his skin. "Shhh, Dave," she murmurs, pulling back to breathe. "Shhh. Easy." He can hear the grin as she tosses his words back at him; he answers with a shaky laugh.

Then she licks a long, slow stripe along his cock and Dave loses his train of thought entirely, focusing instead on not going off like some kid, because it's too much, too good. He chokes out her name and reaches out until he can touch her, feel the muscles in her thigh flexing as she shifts. Strong, he thinks, trying desperately to distract himself by watching her body move. There's strength there - he knows it, knows the way her body looks as she runs, as she kicks down a door, as she aims a gun. He tries not to grab, not to hold too hard, but he knows she's not fragile. There's another meaning there, but he just doesn't have enough brainpower to chase it, not with her finger sliding down to tease the skin behind his balls.

Dave tries to bring a knee up, shifting on the bed, looking for some kind of purchase, but she won't let him, just holds him still and works him over. He can feel the tightness in his belly, feel his balls drawing up, and it's only the fact that he's not ready for this to be over that lets him do something about it.

"Emily," he rumbles, sliding his hand along her skin. She hums an answer and he reminds himself to breathe. Desperate times call for desperate measures, Dave reasons. She's leaning over just enough that he can palm the curve of her ass, and as she goes down on him again he reaches out and traces a finger lightly along her pussy, barely touching her clit. Her gasp is entirely gratifying - as is the shudder he can feel as she sits up and back, her eyes wide and mouth open.

Her laugh is breathless and shivery and beautiful. "Oh," she manages, looking a little blindsided. "Oh."

"My turn," Dave says, before she can start thinking again, and tugs her down. She makes a thoroughly greedy noise against his mouth as he kisses her, tasting himself, tasting her. She moves with him as he rolls them, his skin tingling with the slip of satin, the slickness of ribbon, the slide of her thighs over his. Her pulse is racing; she's breathing in little gasps, little needy noises that go straight to his dick.

He tries to shift downward and she mutters in protest, arching up against him, hands catching at his shoulders. He murmurs back, soothing, dragging his hands down her sides, over her hips, down her legs, till he's exactly where he wants to be. For a moment, he just watches her breathe, letting her calm, and then he brushes a kiss against her inner thigh and settles himself on his stomach. He slides his hands under her ass, tracing the line where fabric meets skin, and then he sets his mouth to her.

The short, sharp noise she makes, her voice tight and cracking, may be the best thing he's ever heard. She's as tightly wound as he is, her muscles quivering as he wraps his hands around her and tugs her closer. He settles into long, slow, broad strokes, firm pressure even as he moves up and over her clit, savoring the way she tastes. She's breathing hard, her hips moving against him when he slips his tongue in further and sets his thumb just under her clit, circling it slowly. She jerks hard, letting out another one of those achy cries, and he has to refrain from rubbing off against the mattress. It's when he slides his fingers in, sweet and easy, her body slick and hot and clinging, that she starts to talk, her voice tripping over his name, over "please" and "yes" and curses, and he'd laugh except he's answering her back, promising her more, promising her the moon, if she just hangs on tight, because she's so gorgeous, so good, and he's got her here, right here.

She curves like a bow when she comes, her body clutching his fingers tight, rippling around him. He can see the corset catch at her, make her fight for the huge, needy breath she takes right before she cracks apart, shuddering hard, and that's enough, that's all it takes, he wants it off of her, wants all of her, wants it gone. He slips his fingers free and yanks at the bow, grateful when the knot slides free without trouble. "I want you," he manages to say, not sure she's in any state to hear him, pretty sure he's being anything but gentlemanly, entirely sure he doesn't give a good god damn. "Want to touch you."

Her hand joins his, loosening the lacings as he works his way up her side, moving just as feverishly. "Yes," Emily agrees. "Fuck, yes." The boning leaves marks when he peels the fabric away, faintly reddened indentations that he tries to smooth away under his thumbs. She twists in his hands and he thinks of the way she danced that night, loose and easy and free. It's not the same, he thinks, filling his hands with her breasts, lapping at the hollow of her throat, stretched out over her, skin-on-skin. It's not the same, it's so much better, and he hadn't ever counted on that. Because it's Emily Prentiss twined around him, her hand in his hair, her hand on his cock, her hips curving against his. "Emily," he groans, slipping a hand between them, pressing gently against her clit. "Please."

"Condom," she mutters, and he fumbles blindly at the nightstand until she laughs and bats his hand away. There's a moment of confused, slightly clumsy choreography, legs bumping, knees touching, as they rearrange, and then she's reaching down and rolling the condom on him, her fingers too light, too gentle, too quickly gone as she settles herself back against the pillows.

Dave's kneeling between Emily's legs. She's laid out in front of him, skin flushed, hair tangled against the pillows, eyes dark, looking him over just as greedily as he's watching her. "Hey," she says quietly, bumping him gently with her knee. He wraps a hand around it, smooths his palm over it, along her thigh, cupping her pussy with just enough pressure to make her close her eyes and arch her back.

"I want to see you," he says, surprising himself. "I want to watch." Emily opens her eyes and smiles at him, and it's all the agreement he needs. He reaches for her, tugs her hips into his lap. He slides into her so sweet, so easy, her cunt tight and hot around his dick, her body arching away from him, her hands fisted in the covers, her breasts full and nipples pebbled. It's so right, it has to be, to make her rock against him, to make her hands tangle with his as the breath catches in her throat. He pulls back, thrusts in again, changing the angle, and she cries out - so he grins and does it again, and again, and again, because there's nothing on earth that's going to convince him to stop.

Emily's beautiful and responsive and impatient, pulling him forward, over her, till their legs are tangled and their bodies flush. He gathers her close, his weight on his elbows, rocking slowly into her, watching her face as she matches him, her legs wrapped around him, keeping him close. He drops his head to kiss her temple, her jaw, her hair, her mouth - anything he can reach. Emily just holds him tighter, dragging her nails gently over his shoulder, down his back, managing a laugh when he shudders and curses.

He's lost in it, lost in her - when she rolls them over, he goes willingly. She's kneeling over him, demanding everything from him, holding nothing back. The light from the bedside lamp gilds her face, the brilliant, needy expression she isn't trying to hide. His whole body's alive, demanding, sparking as he fights to keep up, to give her what she needs, what they both want. She reaches down, her hands finding his and clinging, her pussy tightening, not quite there, and suddenly there's nothing he can do to stop the orgasm that's about to wash over him. "I can't," he gasps, feeling his body tightening with that deep, aching need . "Emily. I -"

"Yes," she answers him. "Yes, Dave, come on. Come. I want to see. Please," she gasps, and that's all it takes. He's spilling into the condom, her body tight and clutching and everything he ever wanted. It takes the last of his available brainpower to free a hand, to circle her clit, but it's worth it, because then Emily Prentiss is falling apart in his arms, curling over and into him as she shakes with the force of it, and this time he knows her name and where she'll be come morning.

_I never should have let her go,_ he thinks. Holding her to him, his hand tangled in her hair, her body slowly relaxing around his, it's a simple statement of fact. It should terrify him. He thinks about the way she'd frozen against him, all those years ago, the way he could practically hear her brain ticking over. It should terrify him. In the morning, it might.

"You're thinking," Emily mumbles against his ear. "How can you have enough energy to be thinking?" She shifts off of him, and he lets her go, rolling over to dispose of the condom.

This time, Dave thinks, they have the luxury of waiting till tomorrow. "'M not," he slurs. "I don't." It's mostly true. He feels loose, like he's drifting, like the world's starting to go fuzzy.

Emily snorts, but all she says is, "Good." He curls into her shoulder, draping an arm over her, breathing in sweat and sex and Emily. Her hand comes to rest against his neck, drawing sleepy patterns on his skin, and Dave lets go.

The next time he opens his eyes, it's morning and she's stolen all the covers, but her arm's around his waist. She's still there.

\---

_A strange thing is memory, and hope; one looks backward, and the other forward; one is of today, the other of tomorrow. _

\-- Grandma Moses

\---


End file.
